Classic Poem

In the early days in our own wild way we hurried the time along
In our Western style an' in manner I'll admit wasn't quite bong tong.
But the life we chose was our own, an' those who thought it was somewhat rude
Had the right to skate, fur to pull their freight to a moraler latitude.
Now I wish to say in emphatic way an' with honest intensity,
That we've seed the end of fun at the Bend, the fun that we used to see
Fur the moral wave that has come to save the camp from a sinful end
Has proved the ruin, the whole undoin' of pleasure at Bobtail Bend.

We could drink our booze in a way profuse an' buck at the faro games,
An' pound the floor till our hoofs was sore a swingin' the dance house dames,
An' we'd scrap an' fight to our hearts' delight with our other innocent sport,
With never a fear we would have to square ourselves in the jestice court.
If a man should scoot down the final chute that leads to the by an' by,
After leakin' his soul through a pistoled hole, there wasn't no hue an' cry,
But we'd plant him deep for eternal sleep in respectable sort o' way,
An' go on a spree to his memory an' forgit the thing in a day.

But the railroad come with the beatin' drum of the singin' Salvation gang,
An' the hills all 'round with the ruinous sound of encroachin' piety rang,
An' the eager throng that is drug along in the wake of the hoss of steam
Come a pourin' in to that nest o' sin in a rather unwelcome stream.
We was crowded back from the progress track in a damnably shameful way,
An' compelled to stand with the pistol hand unable to make a play,
An' the court o' law we with sorrow saw a backin' the moral game,
An' we dassent make a protestin' break through a wholesome fear o' the same.

The cheery noise of the ol'-time boys was drowned by the church's bell,
The voice o' prayer riz up in the air, instead o' the whiskey yell,
An' we heerd the cries o' the school kids rise an' echo along the stream,
An' the sportin' games and the hotfoot dames winked out as a pleasant dream.
All the boys are gone, have meandered on, have scattered to other parts,
On the ol' hillside lie a few that died, I reckon from broken hearts,
An' my race near run, I'm the only one that's left to await the end,
An' till Gabriel's horn I will sit an' mourn the ruin of Bobtail Bend.